


The Flower and the Ox

by disaster_imp



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fae Jaskier, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geraskier, Happy Ending, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaster_imp/pseuds/disaster_imp
Summary: This story is basedon the premise that Geralt, Jaskier and Yennefer have survived to modern times. This idea started over a Joey Batey = Jaskier joke, but I'm really wary of involving real people and honestly, Joey Batey is a precious gift to the world that shouldn't be messed with. So do with that what you will, alter egos haven't been incorporated as part of this story.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 281





	The Flower and the Ox

Shoulder-length scruffy hair, fair skin, average height. The man pushing through the side door into the alleyway didn’t look like anything out of the ordinary, not unless you counted the old lute carelessly slung across his back.

A beautiful, dark-haired woman stepped through the doorway behind him. She froze in her tracks, looking up with sudden a hiss.

The man paused, looking towards the shadows to see what had disturbed her. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out the long white hair first. The unexpected sight sent a torrent of emotion rushing through him, and he froze.

Thirty years it had been, this time. _Thirty fucking years_.

The woman stepped forward protectively, one hand on his arm. Geralt - and Jaskier hated that he looked every bit as magnificent as ever - slowly rose from his bike and stepped into the light.

“Please,” he said in a low rumble.

“Please,” the bard snapped back. “Thirty years. No, Geralt. We are not doing this again. I told you not to come back _the last time_ you fucking abandoned me.”

Geralt stood, his head tilted slightly, as still and stoic as a mountain, piercing yellow eyes holding Jaskier’s angry glare captive.

Jaskier sighed. “What do you want, Geralt?”

“I… need you to come with me. _Please_.”

There it was again. A word he had heard spill from Geralt’s mouth so rarely, now twice within moments. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t, he _should_ send him packing, Geralt didn’t deserve him, and all the work he had done to get over this stubborn bastard was going to be undone again. He had made a life for himself, this past thirty years. Music he loved. He’d _moved on_.

Except… he hadn’t. Not really. In reality, he’d wrapped himself in a cocoon of music that dug at his wounds, his traitorous heart pining for a love he was being pointlessly denied. Somehow, even after all these hundreds of years, the hold the witcher had over him was as strong as ever.

Yennefer knew what Jaskier had decided even before he did. She stepped forward with a menacing glare, a knife appearing in her hand.

“Listen, you white-haired brute. It took me _years_ to put him back together last time. _He’s still not okay_. If you break him again, I’m going to fucking kill you myself,” she threatened.

Geralt nodded, pushing the hand with the knife to one side. “I know, Yenn.”

Shaking her head, Yennefer turned to Jaskier and kissed his cheek.

“Don’t lose yourself, Jask.”

Jaskier nodded helplessly, watching her go before turning back to the source of all his suffering.

“I don’t know where to fucking start, Geralt. It’s… I thought I was okay, but showing up like this? Everything is as raw as if it were yesterday, and I don’t have the fucking words, and I’m _so fucking tired_. Whatever you want, get it over with.”

Geralt nodded, and mounted his bike. “Get on.”

Jaskier took his place behind Geralt, stubbornly keeping some distance between them.

Geralt paused for a moment, waiting for the familiar comfort of Jaskier’s arms around him, his body pressed close, before realising with a defeated sigh that it wasn’t coming. 

The bike started with a smooth rumble, and ten minutes later they pulled up in front of an old building. A low stone wall fenced off an overgrown garden. He’d never been here before, and yet Jaskier’s senses recognized the feeling of the place. It was an oasis of calm, and he stared at the back of Geralt’s head with mounting unease. One advantage of Europe was the number of iron-free buildings that still littered the oldest cities. Faerie havens, old and majestic, built entirely of stone. Geralt hadn’t brought him here by coincidence.

Jaskier tried to resist the innate feeling that told him he was safe, and the moment the engine was cut he demanded answers.

“Why are we here? Specifically, here, at this particularly specific house?”

Geralt put his hand on Jaskier’s thigh in an unconscious gesture, and Jaskier felt his hand reach for Geralt’s. He snatched it back again, cursing the betrayal of his own body.

“ _Why_?” he asked again, insistent.

“Jask, please. I’ll explain inside.”

“I don’t think I want to go inside. In fact, I’m more certain I don’t want to go inside every second,” Jaskier said, folding his arms across his chest.

Geralt dismounted and stared at Jaskier for a moment before turning and stalking through the door without looking back.

“Why do I keep doing this to myself?” Jaskier asked a sprawling rosebush before following the witcher into the unknown once again.

Geralt was waiting inside a dimly lit hallway. When Jaskier entered, he turned into another room.

“You still think I’m just going to blindly follow wherever you lead?” Jaskier called, doing exactly that.

Geralt turned, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly.

“Apparently, yes,” Jaskier sighed, waving his arms.

Inside, Geralt dropped to one knee, and Jaskier’s disquiet rose sharply.

“What are you doing?”

A breathy rustle caught Jaskier’s attention, and he looked up. On the far side of the room, sitting on a gods damned _woodland_ _throne_ covered in climbing roses, as if it wasn’t the most ridiculous children’s stereotype, was a woman. Inhumanly beautiful. Whimsical. _Deadly_.

The Seelie Queen.

“ _Mother_ ,” Jaskier sputtered before turning back to Geralt, his face white with terror.

“Geralt, NO. We are not doing this. Get up. Get up, _NOW_. We are _leaving_.”

Geralt stared at him with the same unreadable expression he always wore.

“It’s okay, Jask,” he rumbled.

“No! It is not okay! You are going to get yourself killed. _Worse than killed_. What the fuck do you think I’ve been trying to protect you from for all these years?!”

Jaskier tugged at Geralt’s leather in panic, his strength barely sufficient to nudge the man, until common sense intervened and he realised his efforts were going nowhere.

“Don’t do this,” he begged, dropping to his knees in front of Geralt. “Please, Geralt. Anything but this. I will follow you anywhere, or leave you alone, do anything you want, _anything_ _else_ , but please, if you ever loved me, stop this _now_.”

Geralt shook his head. “It’s already done.”

“Dammit Geralt! You complete fucking ignorant, ungrateful, stubborn, lumbering ox! You don’t understand! If you don’t pass whatever impossible fucking test she sets you, you don’t just get to die, she will undo your entire fucking _existence_ , as if you were never even here!”

“Calm down, Jaskier,” the faerie queen spoke at last.

“ _I WILL NOT! I –_ “

“JASKIER! It’s already done!”

Jaskier turned, fuming. “Then un-done it! What is the challenge? I claim proxy, or substitute, or fucking whatever. Take me instead.”

“No, my boy. It’s done. _Finished_. He won.”

Jaskier sputtered to a stop, unable to switch gears so quickly.

“He… what?”

“He won. He claims your hand. If you’ll have him.”

Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of its tank, and he looked from the queen to Geralt and back again before finally advancing furiously on Geralt.

“This conversation is not over, Geralt. I am _beyond_ pissed off at you. You could have been _un-fucking-made_. How could you take that chance? _How could you even think of doing that to me?”_

Geralt looked up at him. “I’ve spent half my life hurting you, Jask. I needed to fix it. I tried to stay away, I thought it would be best, but you haven’t stopped writing your stories and music and it’s beautiful, but time isn’t healing either of us. The longer we stay apart, the more you suffer. I don’t want to be the reason for that any more.”

“You are every bit as foolish as the twisted logic that made you leave in the first place.”

“And yet, here we are,” Geralt replied in a familiar refrain.

“Here we are,” Jaskier sighed, finally running out of steam. He turned back to the queen. “Do I want to know?”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t have taken him from you Jaskier, but he had to prove himself worthy. To do that, _you_ had to believe any task I set would be insurmountable. He had to be willing to fight for you.”

“Fight what, exactly?”

“His fear. Think about it. What does he fear most?”

Monsters and death were out, Geralt feared neither. He didn’t age, he didn’t care about looks, possessions or money. The only times Jaskier had ever seen Geralt steeped in fear were when _Jaskier’s_ life was at risk. They had been running through the same cycle for centuries. Every time Geralt became too afraid of losing him, he would drive Jaskier away, until he couldn’t stand his absence any longer and showed up again as if nothing had happened. Each time twisted the dagger through Jaskier’s heart a little deeper, until it finally broke.

“Hurting me. _Losing_ me,” he replied softly.

Geralt nodded his agreement, standing up and pulling Jaskier with him.

“I love you, Jaskier. More than I ever wanted to admit, even to myself. It’s…”

“For all the pain I have caused you over the years, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not forgiven,” Jaskier snapped.

Geralt inclined his head in silent acceptance.

“Jaskier, I don’t have long,” the queen interrupted again. “Do you want him, or not?”

Jaskier alternated his glare between the two of them.

“Yes,” he finally ground out. “You both know perfectly well I do.”

“Good, then I have a gift. You know witchers don’t experience emotion like humans do. Even less like we do, you’re almost polar opposites. I can help you understand him, show you everything he feels, but be warned. It’s not going to be what you expect. It will hurt.”

“No,” Geralt said, a little too quickly.

“Yes,” Jaskier contradicted, turning to his mother. “What’s the catch?”

“It works both ways. He will feel everything you feel, too.”

“ _No_. Jaskier it’s too much, you don’t know what she’s proposing.”

“This isn’t your call, witcher,” said the queen.

“Do it,” Jaskier insisted.

Geralt closed his eyes and grunted his disapproval.

“For the next twenty-four hours, you will be as one heart, one mind, one soul. You will each feel everything the other feels, suffer everything the other suffers, fear everything the other fears, love everything the other loves. When it’s done, Jaskier, you’ll continue to see beyond the Witcher’s taciturn expression to what lies below. Your connection will be stronger.”

“Jaskier, please. I’ve caused you enough pain. Don’t do this.”

Jaskier raised his hand to Geralt’s cheek. “Did you hesitate, when you knew I would object to your quest? _Did you give me a choice?”_

“No,” Geralt admitted, before nodding his reluctant agreement.

“Besides, you’re in for your own surprises,” Jaskier added.

“Hold hands,” came the instruction. “Each of you, breathe the other’s air.”

Geralt’s mouth closed over Jaskier’s, sucking the air from his lungs and then replacing it again.

Jaskier felt dizzy and Geralt’s hands steadied him.

“Hold on, love,” Geralt said, the concern in his tone evident.

Wave after wave of intense emotion slammed into Jaskier. Anger, disappointment, fury, fear. An overwhelming aching worry. Grief. Self-loathing. So much darkness.

Threaded through it all like a saving grace ran pure silvery tendrils of light, and life, and love, and joyful song, every moment of which led back to Jaskier. Jaskier gasped as the full force of the last one hit him and his legs gave way, but Geralt was ready. He picked him up and carried him through to a bedroom. Jaskier fisted his hands in Geralt’s shirt, but was unable to frame a coherent sentence.

Geralt lay him down on the bed.

“Don’t go,” Jaskier managed to croak.

“I’m not leaving you,” Geralt said. “I’m sorry, Jask.”

Jaskier felt a rush of guilt, Geralt’s guilt at what Jaskier was experiencing, close around his throat with an ache that made him want to cry. No wonder Geralt spoke so little.

“How do you… breathe?” Jaskier gasped, attempting to focus on Geralt’s face, a face that was somehow still the same carven statue as always, and yet now Jaskier could also see every subtly expressive change in the twitch of a muscle, the movement of an eyebrow, the clench of his jaw, and he knew that right now, the gentle and loving concern that Geralt was showing him was fed by a giant well of sadness for the overwhelming pain the witcher knew his feelings would be causing.

“You sort of learn to adapt.”

“Can’t… word,” Jaskier muttered.

“Stop trying.”

Geralt pulled Jaskier’s boots off and dropped them on the floor next to the bed, along with the least comfortable elements of his clothing.

“Lute?” Jaskier asked. He wasn’t laying on it, and he didn’t remember taking it off.

“Your lute is safe, love. Everything is going to be okay.”

Jaskier nodded, eyes welling with tears. Geralt sat on the bed beside him.

“Is there anything you need? Want?” he asked.

Jaskier pressed Geralt back onto the bed and curled into the crook of his arm, one ear pressed to Geralt’s chest so he could hear the soothing rumble of his voice reverberate inside.

“Talk,” he said.

“Talk?” Geralt asked. “What about?”

“Just hear your voice,” Jaskier said. “Anything.”

For hours they lay together, Jaskier alternating between twisting his hands in Geralt’s shirt and clawing at his chest, eyes flowing with silent tears as a wild surges of clashing emotions spun around inside him with all the fury of a tempest.

Geralt talked in a low hum, his words carrying little meaning but spoken with a depth of love that Jaskier felt wash over him like the warmth of the sun until finally, exhausted, he managed to fall asleep for a few hours.

When Jaskier woke in the morning, Geralt did his best to limit his suffering. He tried to control his own thoughts at first, thinking that his love would feed Jaskier a positive loop, but that quickly descended into a soul-destroying guilt for all the times he had caused Jaskier pain. As Jaskier’s distress mounted, so did Geralt’s at the hurt he was causing now, and they both spiraled downwards instead.

The easiest thing was going to be to weather the storm as it progressed.

“How long?” Jaskier asked around noon.

“Half way,” Geralt replied, holding him tighter, closer, as a fresh wave of despair shifted between them.

Jaskier was exhausted. His body had responded by putting him into an unrelieved state of fight or flight, and the tension his muscles were holding was starting to burn.

“Is it always like this? Everything, all the time?”

Geralt shook his head. “Not _all_ the time. It silences in the presence of danger.”

“The only time you find peace is when you have to fight?” Jaskier choked out a laugh. “That’s… pretty shit.”

“It is what it is.”

“Geralt…”

“Shhh. You don’t have to say anything.”

“No. _You_ shhh. I know you’ve been trying to help, to control it, and that backfired. I know this sounds backwards, but you have to give up control.”

“That _is_ backwards.”

“Fae magic, you great lump. We’re all about the feelings. _Do what pleases you_. I might be having trouble crashing brain cells together right now, but I do know how my mother thinks. Let go. You tried the other way.”

“No. I tried your way too.”

Jaskier frowned. That didn’t sound right. “When?”

“Every time I tried to focus on my love for you, guilt and blame and fucking… self-hatred took over. I hate how much I’ve hurt you, Jaskier. I can’t separate it.”

Jaskier almost smiled, listening to Geralt babble. This bond really was working both ways, Geralt never would have worried openly, he never talked about his feelings like this.

“Control,” Jaskier said. “You’re trying to control it. _Let go_.”

Jaskier cleared his throat and started to sing softly, his voice laden with emotion until the wild, lonely words of his song brought tears to Geralt’s eyes and Jaskier felt waves of sadness wash through him. He pressed his forehead to Geralt’s and kissed him through tears he hadn’t known the man was capable of producing. A hungry, aching need twisted through his gut, followed by more waves of crushing guilt as Geralt pulled away from him.

“Breathe,” Jaskier said. “Don’t think. Breathe.”

Geralt closed his eyes and nodded, and instead of kissing him again, Jaskier nipped his ear. Geralt’s eyes flew open, and Jaskier smiled as feelings of surprise and amusement rose within his chest.

“Take it easy, Jask. This spell… I’m not going to let _my_ feelings dictate _your_ actions.”

“I still have free will. Look, my judgement is always the absolute fucking worst around you, but I know how you feel now, and I know _why_ you were such an asshole. I don’t forgive you, by the way. I intend to make you spend the rest of your life making it up to me. You know I will, if I can feel everything you feel, you can certainly feel the furious spite howling inside of me.”

Geralt huffed, darkness hovering again.

“Geralt, this is all I want. Everything I’ve ever wanted. You, and my music. And maybe recognition for my music. _You_ think you don’t deserve me, and you know what? You’re fucking right. You don’t. You don’t a thousand times over, and changing won’t negate the past, and yes, I’m bitter and angry and sad because you never gave me a _choice_ , but I can’t help how I feel. The fae in me… I don’t have a choice about who to love, or how. Just don’t even _think_ about leaving again, okay?”

“Never,” Geralt agreed.

Jaskier hesitated.

“I know you feel what I do, too.”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier was surprised to find it accompanied by nothing but love. No fear, or mistrust or revulsion, or any of the other emotions Jaskier might have expected.

“It doesn’t change anything?” he asked.

“No,” Geralt said firmly, and again, there was no change in the emotions Jaskier felt coming through the bond.

“Why not?” Jaskier demanded, his curiosity getting the better of his common sense. He knew damn well that while Geralt’s love for him was pure and selfless and insecure, his for Geralt was something bordering on obsession, dark and wild and dangerous, and furiously possessive.

“Jask, I probably wouldn’t argue if you tried to own me, if you gave in to your more sinister impulses. Hell, some of it I might even enjoy. _But you don’t_. You make that choice. There’s good in you too. More than you realise.”

Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. _Enjoy?_ Jaskier wasn’t anywhere near as strong as Geralt, but he had a sudden desire to pin him to the bed and torture him until he begged, and he _knew_ Geralt would let him do it. A flood of elation stormed through Jaskier, and it wasn’t coming from Geralt.

Jaskier knew full well everything he was feeling would be transferring directly to Geralt, and the bastard was just lying there, _smirking_.

“Gods, Geralt, you are a fucking _gift_. Stop talking and smother me with attention until this fae-forsaken spell wears off, because I’m about done with the negativity. If I’m what makes you happy, then _let me make you happy._ Perhaps we can find a way to enjoy the hours left instead of destroying ourselves. In fact, now that I seem to have enough of a handle on this to do things like talk and… realise how much everything aches, I feel like I’ve run a marathon. Why don’t we start with a bath?”

Jaskier felt a surge of lust coming straight from Geralt twist inside his gut, and he grinned a feral faerie grin.

This was going to be _fun_.


End file.
